by Olivia Hayle
Disappointment wells up inside, unbidden but unstoppable. To not be touched by him again isn’t what I want, not at all, despite how inappropriate it would be given our professional relationship.
Henry’s eyes widen as he reads the emotion on my face. “That’s not what you wanted to hear,” he murmurs.
It’s foolish. So, so reckless.
But I shrug. “Maybe not. Are you sure you can stay away?”
His gaze turns molten and I can’t look away. I never could, with him. The tension between us heightens until it’s a current, electricity dancing over my skin and setting my nerves aflame. Alive, my body is whispering, as it so often does when Henry’s near. This is what it feels like to be alive.
“You’re taunting me. Are you sure that’s wise, Faye?”
I wet my lips and swallow at the sudden dryness in my throat. Somehow, our story has already begun—beating hearts and the scent of his cologne and forbidden kisses in offices—and I didn’t realize it until I’m here, right in the middle of it.
“Wisdom comes with age, so I’m relying on you here.”
Henry arches a dark eyebrow, a smile hovering around the corners of full lips. The man is indecently handsome on the best of days, and now, with the feel of his mouth still lingering on mine…
“Dangerous, that. I think I’ve proven that I’m not exactly in control of this particular situation.” He glances down to where his hand rests next to mine on the desk. Our bodies aren’t touching, but the air between us is charged with possibility. “And neither are you, it seems.”
It’s a question—even if he’s phrased it as a statement. And I know I could walk away right here, make the right decision, close the door to his office and come back on Monday morning like nothing changed between us. That’s what he’s offering me.
We can pretend we never crossed this line.
“It is inconvenient,” I echo. “I guess it’s a bit like a staring contest, after all. We’ll just have to see which one of us breaks first.”
“But of course,” he murmurs. “You’re as competitive as me.”
“You keep forgetting.”
“At my own risk, clearly.” Something sparks in his eyes, something I can’t place. Dark satisfaction makes my stomach curl with pleasure. He leans in, close enough that I think he might kiss me again. My eyes drift closed on reflex. Whatever he wants, I’m game—there’s no common sense or resistance left.
There’s a huff of deep laughter. “I’ve already told you I don’t lose. Go home, Miss Alvarez. On Monday we start anew.”
Damn man. I open my eyes, only to see his half-smile. He thinks he has me on the ropes.
I stand slowly, my hip brushing his, and let my hand slide down the skin of his forearm. His eyes narrow at me—the smile is gone entirely now, replaced by heat. “Good night, Mr. Marchand,” I say. “Enjoy your weekend.”
His eyes are on me the entire way out.
17
Henry
The gym used to be my calm place.
There was no thinking when I was lifting weights, or running on the treadmill, or bench pressing. Just me and achievement; lifting more, running longer.
But that peacefulness is lost. Ever since Friday—since earlier, if I’m being honest with myself—my mind drifts back to Faye every chance it gets. It doesn’t matter that it’s seven a.m. or that my breath is coming in painful huffs.
I shouldn’t have kissed her, I think for the hundredth time. What had come over me? I wasn’t a horny teenager, and I wasn’t Elliot Ferris, and still… I’d kissed her right there, right in my office, sitting at my own damn desk.
I turn up the incline on the treadmill another few levels. It’s the part of my gym routine I hate the most, but I never skip it. Doing things I don’t want to do is my specialty. Getting things done. Playing by the rules, pushing the limits, sacrificing things like pleasure for the plan. In my family, my self-discipline was practically legendary.
But it had crumbled with one look from Faye.
Damn woman. She was just as infuriatingly stubborn as me, not afraid to speak her mind, and she knew just how to push limits. No woman I’d dated would have acted like she did on Friday—drawn up a contract. Taken a seat at my desk. Negotiated for her future.
I run until my legs nearly give out, lungs about to burst in my chest. It’s a small testament to the self-discipline Faye has tried to ruin. Brick by brick, I’ll have to rebuild the layers of control. She’d challenged me to stay away from her. I’ll win, and there’s no denying I’ll have a hell of a lot of fun doing it, walking the thin line with her.
When I arrive at work, it’s mostly empty, as usual. I spend the first two hours working on the opera house and answering emails. The clock hand moves slowly on my desk toward ten a.m.—the time I know Faye will be at my door, laptop under her arm, ready for our Monday meeting. My self-control does nothing to dampen anticipation, it seems.
She knocks on my door at exactly ten a.m. A vision in red today—a dress that follows her body, coupled with a blazer. Hair up in a ponytail.
The look she gives me in indecipherable. I look right back at her, our gaze locked until there’s a smile on her lips. It eases something in my chest—the part of me that had been unsure of how she’d behave around me, given Friday.
“Well,” she says, “shall we begin?”
We run through her list of things to check for the coming week. It’s not much, given we’ll both be out of office on both Thursday and Friday. The urge to tease her about it is nearly overwhelming.
Faye gently closes her laptop, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of silky hair behind her ear. “So,” she says, “on to my final item.”
“Oh?”
“I want more information about this weekend. If I’m to be your date, I want to know what I’m walking into. Is this wedding really going to last four days?”
I lean back in my chair. “Yes, and no. People are coming in from out of town and there are things scheduled from Friday to Sunday. Dinner, games, brunch, that sort of thing.”
“And on Thursday?”
“Dinner with my family.”
Something like surprise flashes in her eyes. Interesting. “Okay,” she says, but there’s a faint frown on her lips.
“You still want more information.”
She runs a hand over her hair, but stops halfway, as if remembering that she has it pinned tight. “Yes. I’m a planner. An organizer. What if we get asked questions about how we met? What do I work with, if we don’t work together? I need details.”
I stifle a smile at her rambling. “You want all your bases covered.”
“Yes.”
A glance from her to the office door proves it’s shut, but it still feels too exposing to talk about this, here, in the place where we both need to be professional. “Come over tonight,” I say instead. “We’ll make a game plan. You can ask all the questions you want.”
Her eyes widen. “To yours?”
“Yes.”
It’s risky, but I need to prove to the both of us that we can do the right thing—that we can stay away from each other. That I still have self-control.
Her eyes narrow with determination. “I can tell what you’re doing.”
“Really? And what am I doing?”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there. Seven?”
“Yes. I trust you already have the address?”
Faye stands, her eyes meeting mine for one long, breathless moment. “Yes,” she says, “I do. Think we can handle it?”
“Being alone together?”
She nods, tucking her laptop under her arm. I run a hand along the edge of my desk and meet her bold gaze straight-on. “You challenged us to stay away from one another. If I remember correctly, you also predicted you’d win.”
There’s a grin on her lips, hovering right around the corners of her mouth. It makes me want to smile in response. “So I did,” she says. “I guess we’ll just have to see
who does.”
It’s seven p.m., and Faye’s right on time, standing outside my apartment door.
She’s let her hair down, and it tumbles loose and long down her back. Black strands frame her face. For such a small woman, she has a huge presence. There’s nowhere else I want to look when she’s around.
She gives me a businesslike nod and steps past me. “So this is your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“It’s very close to work.”
“Convenient.”
She hangs her thin jacket up on one of the pegs in the hallway and walks into the living room unescorted. I hang back, watching in silence as she looks around. Her fierce beauty makes my neutral apartment look dull in comparison.
“Huh,” she finally says. “It’s nothing like I expected.”
“How so?”
She stops at the coffee table, eyes roaming over a large book on ancient Roman architecture. “It has… personality.”
Hah. Bemused, I put my hands in my pockets and just look at her. She glances up and seems to realize her words. “Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard it,” I say. My apparent “lack of personality” has become a common refrain from friends and family at this point. Lighten up. Smile. Why so serious?
“Have you been?” I ask, nodding at the book.
“To Italy? No.”
“You’d love it.”
A faint, dreamy smile softens her lips. It changes her features, the alertness momentarily gone. “Of that I have no doubt,” she murmurs.
She’s so beautiful with her guard down, and the fierce desire I feel is not something I’m used to; I want to bring out that softness again, over and over, in quiet moments when there’s no one around but us.
I clear my throat. “A glass of wine, and then we’ll start with your questions. White?”
“Yes. Please.”
She leans against the kitchen island as I open the wine cooler and find a bottle of Sancerre. It’s light, easy, the complete opposite of the conversation I’m sure we’re about to have.
“So…” she begins.
“So,” I echo, uncorking the bottle. “Let’s get our story straight. That’s what you wanted, right?”
She slides into one of the tall chairs by the kitchen island and runs a hand over the marble. “Do you cook?”
“Sometimes,” I answer calmly.
“This kitchen is meticulously clean. Did you scrub it down with bleach before I came?”
“Cleaners come twice a week.”
She nods, like she expected nothing else, and lets her eyes wander. They slide around the open kitchen space, the large windows, the sofas that beckon. I wonder what she thinks of my place—what it says about me. We’re architects, after all. Forms and shapes are never just functional.
“Where’s the wedding?”
“In Paradise Shores,” I say. “It’s a seaside town in New England.”
“Ah,” she says, a whole world conveyed through that one word. It’s not hard to imagine what she’s thinking. She accepts the wineglass I hand her, twirling it thoughtfully by the stem. “Think I’ll fit in?”
The thought that she wouldn’t hadn’t even crossed my mind. “Absolutely.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“Yes.”
She slides out of the chair and walks, wineglass in hand, to the large sofas in the adjoining living room. They’re all gray; there’s barely any color in sight. I watch in silence as she runs a hand over the high back. “If we’re going to do this, we need to know more about each other.”
I gesture for her to sit down, and she does, as far away from me as the couch allows. Smart. Despite the distance, my body is painfully aware that she’s here, with me, in my home. Alone. Control, I remind myself. Boundaries.
“You’re right,” I say. “Tell me about where you’re from.”
She sighs, her gaze slipping from mine again to land on the sleek fireplace. Not for the first time, it strikes me just how beautiful she really is. It was something she’d mentioned in her cover letter—that she wasn’t taken seriously because of it. The notion that people only see her face, and not the fierce intellect beneath it, makes me just as angry on her behalf.
“I’m from a small town out in the Midwest,” she says. “You wouldn’t know it.”
“Ohio, right?”
“Yes. My parents are amazing. They had me when they were really young, and money was always tight, but they gave me the best they could.” Her eyes are proud—like she’s waiting for judgement. Has she received it in the past?
“I’m sure they did.”
“My father came here as an immigrant when he was a teenager. He worked every job he could.” A small, indulgent smile spreads on her face. “He’s the one I call whenever I have a problem, of any kind. He knows how to repair a dishwasher, how to fix chipped paint on a car… absolutely anything.”
“He sounds great.”
She nods. “He is. My mom is Midwestern, born and bred. She got her teaching degree when I was still a kid, and she’s worked as a third-grade teacher ever since. Her students call her Mrs. C, because Alvarez is too hard for some of them to pronounce.”
“What did they think of you moving out here?”
“They were supportive. I mean… they don’t really understand what I do, but they’d never be anything but positive about the whole thing.”
The picture she is painting is lovely. “Any siblings?”
“Nope, only child.” She pulls her knees up under her silk skirt, heels left abandoned on the carpet. “But this is going the wrong way around. I have questions for you.”
I steel myself. “All right.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“Well, my father is a developer and builder, just like me. My mom doesn’t work. She… she came here from France to marry my dad. She was a stay-at-home mom for many years.”
Faye sits up straighter. “You’re half-French?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her wine, eyes averted. It’s not hard to imagine what she’s thinking about. Both of us have one foot in another culture, another language, but the lived experiences of our parents couldn’t be more different. It’s a similarity that still serves to highlight the difference between us—the same difference she’d outlined in her cover letter.
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes. Had to, to be able to speak to my cousins.”
“I’m very much hoping that’s not a requirement for this wedding, though.”
I snort. “No. Everything will be in English, don’t worry.” Most of the French side of the family had not been invited. Lily had wanted it small, after all.
Faye nods, letting her fingers trail over the couch. Her hand is slender, free from rings, slightly tan. I wonder what it would feel like on my skin. I wonder how she feels about my firm, my apartment, after what she just told me about her upbringing. In her eyes, I suppose it might seem… gaudy. Does it make her think less of me?
But then she cocks her head, smooths her hair back, and sends me a look filled with such challenge that all thought evaporates.
“So, Henry Marchand… how exactly did we meet?”
I clear my throat. “Through mutual acquaintances.”
“Mmm, that’s good. At a dinner party.”
“Sure.”
“We were seated next to each other and found mutual ground over how small the portions were. You offered me a ride home. We stopped at a kebab shop in Brooklyn.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Detailed, are you?”
“It’s what makes me a great assistant.”
“Then by all means, continue.”
A beautiful, fierce flush rises on her cheeks, but she doesn’t break away from my gaze. “You got a massive kebab, I got a smaller one, and we shared a plate of fries. We spoke about our mutual love of architecture.”
“Sound
s like something we’d do.”
A smile ghosts across her lips, the memory of our lunch clear in her eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“What did we do after the kebab shop?”
“We didn’t call another car. We walked instead, late at night, nearly all the way to my apartment. We spoke about how hard you work, that you’ve always been driven. I chimed in with my own stories of all-nighters spent in the library, of feeling like a failure if I didn’t get an A on my report cards. Our hands brushed as we walked, by accident at first, but later on with purpose.” She pauses, taking another sip of her wine. “…and then we reached my apartment building.”
“Hmm. It would be late by then,” I say.
“Oh, it was.” Her eyes glitter, challenging and heated. “Well? What did you do next?”
I drape my arm along the edge of the sofa, my hand nearly at her shoulder. “I brushed your hair back—you were wearing it down, like you are now—and asked for your number. You gave it to me, of course.”
“Of course,” she says with a smile.
“Then I told you that I wanted to take you out the following weekend. Properly, on a date, just the two of us.”
She wets her lips. “You wouldn’t kiss me? Or come inside?”
Heat and need clenches inside of me at her words. Such a simple question, but such a powerful response. I try to force my mind away from the memory of her soft lips on mine and the way her body had melted against me.
I fail.
“I wouldn’t have pushed it. We’d just met, after all. But I can tell you, just between us, that I wanted to, very much.”
She picks at the hem of her skirt. “Oh?”
“Absolutely.”
There’s something about her normally competent self being thrown off that is beyond intoxicating. I have to stop myself from smiling at the look on her face, her lips slightly open, eyes glazed…
I shift closer. “Is that a good enough story for our first meeting, Faye?”
“Yes. Yes, I think that’ll work…” Her voice trails off, her fingers dancing along the back of the sofa.
